


I Gotta Wear Shades

by dessert_first



Category: The Avengers (2012), due South
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:45:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dessert_first/pseuds/dessert_first
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due South/Avengers fusion in which Fraser is the recently defrosted Captain Canada, Ray Kowalski is Hawkeye (but only with his glasses on), and Stella is Natasha... or is she? </p><p>This story delves into the wonderful world created by ria_oaks in her due South/Avengers crossover series, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/collections/ds_c6d_big_bang_2012/works/529353">Captain Canada: The First (Canadian) Avenger</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Gotta Wear Shades

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Captain Canada: The First (Canadian) Avenger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/529353) by [ria_oaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ria_oaks/pseuds/ria_oaks). 



> When I saw the concept and casting choices Ria_Oaks made for this inventive series I was instantly in love, and seeing her wonderful artwork and storylines just increased that love. So thank you, Ria_Oaks, for letting me play in this amazing playground you've created!!

Everything is new. 

Everything is strange.

Everyone is gone.

Everyone.

There is a pervasive sense of _wrongness_ about everything ever since he woke up in that not-quite-right room they'd set up for him, done in their idea of 1940s style, big band music on the radio. But it had been wrong, and Fraser had realized, had run outside to get away, to see...

...and he couldn't help but wonder, when faced with the overwhelming vast madness of the outside world, if he really hadn't woken up at all.

He was only dreaming. He had died going down on the plane and this was some twisted afterlife. He'd somehow time-travelled into the future. He'd been accidentally preserved under the ocean for seventy years, found and defrosted in the peak of health.

Really, which one of these thoughts seemed more likely?

But then, truth be told, Fraser had seen stranger things. Doctor Gustaffsen had seen to that with his super-soldier serum. Mort. With his kindliness and his opera, he had been a comfort to Fraser, had made him feel like he really did have something worthy to contribute, above and beyond his enhanced physical attributes: his mind. His heart.

But Mort is gone now. Bold, brave Meg. Dear, clever Ray. All the men in Fraser's unit, loyal soldiers, every one. 

Every one of them gone, and Fraser here, and everything is wrong, wrong, wrong, and he can't understand how anything works and even the food tastes different, and he still can't get drunk so he can't ever forget.

He is contemplating this particular fact, a glass of whiskey in his hand, seated at a bar in some little warren in New York, the kind of place filled with old veterans and scarred tabletops, the low hum of conversation almost familiar, almost something Fraser can place. If this is a dream, this bar is well-dreamed up, seems almost right, and it's all but empty at this time of day. 

Fraser is swirling the whiskey in his glass, staring at the amber liquid, when he notices someone sit on either side of him at the bar.

A blond man sits on his right, dressed in a tight black vest and trousers, the sleek muscles of his biceps on display as he rests his hands on the bar, the long, slim fingers of one hand tapping out a little tune Fraser can't quite place.

"I don't know why I'm here," says the woman sitting on Fraser's left. Her hair is a darker, honeyed blond, and she wears an elegant white blouse, trim navy slacks. "I had a mission in Prague."

"You just like Prague," replies the man on Fraser's right, studiously squinting up at the row of bottles behind the bar.

"No, I had a _mission_ in Prague," the woman says, flagging down the bartender. 

"You just like _saying_ Prague," the man amends with a grin.

The bartender ambles over, a cheerful old veteran that Fraser has actually grown rather fond of over the past hapless weeks, and takes their orders.

"Top that off, Cap?" he asks Fraser politely, nodding at Fraser's all but untouched drink.

"No thank you, Sam," Fraser says.

"That the good stuff?" the blond man asks. "You can tell a lot about a man from his drink."

"Like the fact that he doesn't drink," the woman observes, wry. She picks up the shot glass Sam sets in front of her, raises it in Fraser's direction. "Cheers."

"Like that," the man agrees, raising his own glass in a toast. "I'm Ray, by the way," he tells Fraser, companionably. "And that's Stella over there."

"Stanley Raymond Kowalski, code name Hawkeye," Fraser says. "And Stella Kowalski, also known as Black Widow."

"Actually, it's Stella Davies," she says, holding out a graceful hand to shake. "But everything else you got right. You've been doing some research."

"I've had some time on my hands recently," Fraser admits. "And it seemed wise to get to know the SHIELD team, considering Welsh seems interested in my running it."

Stanley—Ray—grins at Fraser. “Yeah, there's a few people on the team that don't play well with others. Be good to have someone to, ah, whip us into shape.” He winks, and Fraser can feel himself flush.

“Yes, well, I haven't exactly accepted his offer yet,” Fraser says.

“But you're thinking about it,” Stella points out. “Either that or we make for some fascinating bedtime reading.”

“I bet it's the bedtime reading,” Ray says cheerfully. “Especially that one time you took on the entire Russian consulate with nothing but a tube of lipstick and a hairpin, while tied to a chair. Good times.”

“The two of you seem to work together well enough,” Fraser observes.

“Ah,” Ray grins. “Me and Stella are a special case, though.”

“The formerly shared last name may have tipped you off,” Stella spins around on her barstool, leaning back with her elbows propped against the bar, and when Fraser glances to his other side, Ray has also turned, so smoothly Fraser can't quite tell who originated the movement in the first place; they are simply mirror images on either side.

He turns around as well. “But it would seem that you are still...” Fraser trails off, uncertain.

“We're like the Boris and Natasha of the international crime-fighting community. I'm Natasha, of course,” Ray winks.

Stella rolls her eyes.

“And I take it they sent you to secure their latest asset?” Fraser snaps.

“You are certainly a highly valued potential agent,” Stella says seriously. “But hardly an asset.”

“No more than the rest of us are,” Ray shrugs. “And it's not so bad being an asset. We get all the best toys.”

“You should see his bow and arrow collection,” Stella raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow in a way that seems almost playful.

“You really should,” Ray beams. “And my quiver, I've got a really awesome quiver.”

Fraser narrows his eyes, but Ray just keeps on beaming, the soul of innocence. Fraser darts a glance around the all-but-empty bar, just a small group of old friends in the back corner, frowning good-naturedly at their playing cards as their poker game unfolds. No one seems to be paying attention to Fraser and his companions. Still.

“Are you, ah--” Fraser pauses, struck. The Kowalskis—or the current and the former Kowalski—were both known as skilled spies. Seduction could be just another tool to achieve their assigned purpose, and this—these sudden friendly overtures, the playful flirting, a handsome man, a beautiful woman, as if to ensure something to appeal to Fraser, whichever way his tastes might run... and no one, no had ever—Fraser hadn't even allowed himself to look, to entertain the thought... he stands abruptly, shoving away from the bar and tossing some money by his still-full glass of whiskey, those odd green American bills SHIELD had issued him.

“Hey, woah, are you okay?” Ray asks, jumping up to stand by him, hands up and carefully held with palms out in plain view. 

“Fine,” Fraser says. “I'm fine, I just—I need to leave now.”

“Wait, don't head out there on your own, okay? Not right now.”

“I'm hardly vulnerable,” Fraser says, looking away. “Believe me, the serum has held up well over time.”

“No, I know, that's not—” Ray frowns, shoves a hand through the artful spikes of his hair. “I know you're not, not physically vulnerable, I know you can kick ass. But if I said something that bothered you, I'm sorry. This has to be insane, I can't even imagine what it's like for you, one minutes fighting Nazis in World War Two with your friends and your girl and then suddenly you wake up and it's the future, with, with cell phones and plasma TVs and digital billboards and fuck, it's like the Jetsons, I bet, like maybe you're just dreaming someone dropped you in the future and any minute you'll wake up and everything will be normal again, right?”

Fraser stares at him. “I—yes. _Yes._ ”

“Okay,” Ray says. “Okay. That really, really sucks.”

His artificially perfected vision blurs suddenly, and Fraser blinks, only to realize there are tears in his eyes. “Yes.”

Ray's face creases in sympathy, and he steps forward, hesitant. “But I got—I got good shoulders, so...” He opens his arms, palms up, and waits there until Fraser walks into them, folding around him, solid and alive and the most real thing Fraser's come across since he woke up lost like Alice through the looking glass. He buries his face in the warm, good-smelling crook of Ray's neck, this other Ray, this new Ray, and perhaps it's a sign, perhaps it means something, perhaps it's a little bit of home, a little bit of shelter from the storm.

Fraser isn't sure how long they stay there, but when he finally pulls away, Ray's shoulder is damp.

“I'm sorry,” Fraser says.

“Don't be,” Ray says. “Hey, you wanna get out of here?”

**

Stella gives Ray a long, considering look, gives another one to Fraser, and takes her leave, citing loose ends on the Prague mission. A slight upwards tilt to the corners of her mouth is the only indication of her approval, but Ray seems to take that in stride.

Ray and Fraser head to Central Park, the contact with the outdoors somehow soothing to Fraser. It's harder to spot anachronisms in nature, and there is a comfort in that, in the sameness of green grass, tall trees, vibrant flowers, the occasional chipmunk or squirrel. Signs of life, still the same. There are people, so many people, but the pace seems less frantic than on the streets of New York: men, women and children riding bicycles, running, sunning themselves on the grass. A group practices some kind of martial art. 

They venture deeply off the path, find a shaded copse of trees and sit.

Fraser leans back against a tree and just breathes, watching Ray sitting nearby, closing his eyes and tilting his face up to catch a sunbeam that filters in through the trees, caressing the planes of Ray's face.

“I didn't think I'd see you without your eyeglasses,” Fraser blurts. “Your file says your marksmanship is unparalleled, but your eyesight is...”

Ray smiles, eyes still closed. “Paralleled?”

“Well, it, ah, mentioned the need to bring a backup pair of eyeglasses in case of any incidents during missions.”

“It mentions I'm nearsighted as fuck,” Ray says. “Well, whatever parts of my file you were cleared to read.”

“There did seem to be a lot of missing information. Gaps in the timeline, so to speak.”

“You really did read up on us, huh?” Ray seems unbothered. “I read up on you, too. You were the real deal, huh, the old-fashioned kind of hero. We run more to anti-heroes these days. Damaged goods. Me, I think it all started with Steve McQueen.”

“Who?” Fraser blinks.

“Oh, Frase,” Ray shakes his head. “You and me, we got a lot of catching up to do. Lucky for you, I happen to have a line on the best collection of sixties and seventies American cinema classics you will ever see.”

“Really?” Fraser fights a smile. “How helpful. And where would this film archive be?”

“Why, Fraser, I thought you'd never ask,” Ray says, smiling widely. “It happens to be in my apartment.”

Fraser starts to smile back, helpless to resist, when he realizes this seems like it might be perilously close to flirting. He looks away quickly, and when he dares to glance back, Ray is studying him, the casual, relaxed pose of his body suddenly at odds with the sharp intensity of his gaze.

“You know, a lot of things have changed since the forties,” Ray says. “Not that I'm pressuring you or anything, just... just thought it would be good to know. Since you're acclimatizing and all. We could maybe watch some early nineties movies, too, while we're at it. Oh, and I bet you'd love _Some Like it Hot_.”

This time Fraser really can't help but smile a little, though he keeps his gaze studiously averted. “Would I?”

“Yeah,” Ray says softly. “Yeah, I think you would.”

And maybe, just maybe, the future isn't so bad after all.


End file.
